Road
by Yuki Scorpio
Summary: The legless bird strayed and could not land.


In the end, it was Fuji who left, to chase dreams that could not be fulfilled in this small island-country. In the end, it was Tezuka who stayed behind. Tezuka, who fought tooth and nail to stay in this small island-country yet still pursued his goals. The opportunities did not exist, but Tezuka created them himself by sheer willpower. Fuji did not have this strength. Nor could he ask Tezuka to give it all up for him. 

But he could say goodbye.

Tezuka had a match on the day, so they met the night before. Which, Fuji thought, was the best thing. If he saw Tezuka at the airport, he did not think he could let go. The crowds, the departure announcements, the smell of airports had strange effects on people.

Years ago, Fuji used to say that Tezuka looked too mature for his age. Now that they had both grown up, now that Tezuka struggled for words, as clumsy and afraid as a child riding a bike for the first time, Fuji saw that Tezuka was young, that Tezuka held his own fears, that Tezuka was not totally immovable. And Fuji's heart broke, knowing it was him who was doing all this, because he did not have the courage to fight for what he wanted, but he had the cruelty to claw at Tezuka's and his own heart.

The well-practised smile was a mockery, so Fuji stopped himself from smiling, no matter how self-defensive he was feeling. He waited, his hand in Tezuka's, as Tezuka waited for his words to come. When they did, they turned out to be very simple.

"See you later."

Fuji shook. He did not reply with the same words; it was a promise he could not give. "Don't wait for me, Tezuka."

"When you are tired, come home."

It was him who was doing the hurting, but it was also him who started to cry. Because Tezuka was too kind when he was too cruel, because Tezuka squeezed his hands and reassured him, because Tezuka struggled with his ineloquence and his pride to say these words, and all Fuji could return was silence.

* * *

For the first few weeks, life around Fuji changed so dramatically he hardly had a second to breathe, let alone think. Foreign land, foreign people, foreign language, foreign food, all of it called for him to explore and get used to. Everything was strange and exciting and everyday he discovered something new.

He did not think about Tezuka. There was not the time, nor the will. If he did he would remember the night they parted and Fuji did not need to remind himself once again that he was a cruel, selfish coward who cared only for himself and left behind a man who loved him - a man he loved - for his own interests.

Time flew, through the gaps of life, silently, unnoticeably, like the air you breathe which you do not think about until there is none. One day, Fuji's phone rang, and he picked it up, answering with the foreign tongue.

"It's me."

And then time stopped again, along with Fuji's breathing.

They chat about casual things: Tezuka's training, what he had eaten for dinner, what happened at a friend's birthday celebrations. And Fuji felt content, as if they were sitting next to each other, talking about what happened during the day.

"And how are you, Fuji?"

The seemingly simple question reminded Fuji he had barely said anything in the last half an hour, and absolutely nothing for the last few weeks, even though he told Tezuka he would call as soon as he had settled down in the new place.

He also realised he did not know what to say to Tezuka.

* * *

Quite soon, work truly began. Fuji, whether he willed it or not, had less and less time to himself. The mere thought of this annoyed him, and the lack of personal space made him want to be sick. A hug and a kiss as greetings, sitting close together during groupwork - which there was far too much for Fuji's liking - all of this were the norm for these foreign people but not something Fuji could appreciate. But he grated his teeth and reminded himself ihe/i was the foreigner here. He had to do his best to love their culture and make his stay worthwhile. He had already given up so much to be here, the personal space that he had taken for granted back in Japan would just have to be sacrificed as well.

He rarely made any phone call. When he remembered to and when he found the time, it would be too late to call Japan. His family rang him instead, and Fuji started getting used to having a few brief words with them inbetween lectures or during lunch, every few days.

Tezuka also called regularly. Once, Fuji looked at the clock and realised what sort of hour it was for Tezuka. When he remarked on it, Tezuka said it was fine, it was something he could get used to.

It was strange. In the past, something like this would have made Fuji smile, because he had made a dent in Tezuka's perfect life. But now, it made him want to curl up into a ball on his bed, for exactly the same reason.

* * *

Sometimes, when Fuji checked the Japanese news on the Internet, he would see Tezuka in the sports section. Every now and then Tezuka would even appear on the entertainment page. And why not? Tezuka was a great sportsman. He was also single, rich and good looking, and his stoic face gave off an 'untouchable' or even 'forbidden' aura. Nothing could be more exciting than a man like that.

It was rare that the media ever caught him with a woman, but whenever they did, they went wild.

Fuji stared at these pictures, and wondered why this same man, who had everything in the world, promised to wait for him.

He knew why. But, _why?_

* * *

Fuji had nothing to say on the phone. Talking meant admitting he was far away, that things had changed. The thought frightened him so much he could not even utter a word.

* * *

"Are you going out with anyone?" Someone asked, during lunch.

Fuji stared at his cajun chicken salad. Tezuka's face flashed across his mind. He was going out with him. But were they still going out? "Well..."

"Syusuke looks like he's thinking of someone back home." Another friend remarked, chuckling.

After swallowing his mouthful of food, Fuji wiped his lips with a tissue. The words left him before he gave them any proper thought. "No, I'm not seeing anyone."

* * *

Tezuka, the Internet said, was going out with a top actress. Fuji knew of her. Tezuka and the woman became friends after they met at a charity event and Tezuka had briefly mentioned her name in conversations. Paparazzi-style photographs followed the pair from a restaurant to Tezuka's home. Apparently she did not leave until well after midnight. Some people responded to the pictures, saying it probably was not Tezuka; the picture quality was too poor to see anything. But Fuji could tell, no matter how blurry the images were, that this was indeed the man he was - had been - going out with.

* * *

That Saturday, Fuji switched his phone off, and took someone home.

* * *

During a phone call one weekend, Fuji tried to listen for anything that may have changed: a woman's voice; someone moving about in the background; a change of tone in Tezuka's voice. But there was nothing.

At one point, Tezuka fell silent for a moment, and then asked a question.

"Fuji?" _Is everything all right? Is there something you want to tell me?_

Fuji said nothing. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of food landing in a hot wok. He did not know where he found the courage, but he asked a question too.

"You're not alone?"

"I went home. Mother is cooking." It sounded like Tezuka was moving. "I will go to my room."

"Ah, no. No need. I was just wondering."

Pause.

"Fuji."

"I was just wondering."

* * *

Back in Japan, Fuji's social circle consisted of Seigaku's friends, his siblings' friends, and the people he met at the billiards club. A lot of his time was spent with them, and with Tezuka, not necessarily doing anything in particular, sometimes just sitting in the same room doing their own thing until Fuji got bored and distracted Tezuka enough to steal a kiss.

But he was not in Japan anymore. The people who now surrounded him did not go to Seigaku; they lived lives that were different and interesting. Fuji was out on his own, with all the freedom and no one to reign him back. What he had in Japan was not all that life had to offer. And Fuji told himself he would be a fool to not make the most of this.

* * *

"I have one month's holiday over Christmas," said Tezuka, "we couldn't spend last Christmas together, but this time I can fly over to see you."

Fuji had never felt such deep, deep panic in his life.

"I have exams after Christmas," he blurted out, his characteristic calm leaving him with every breath. Tezuka would not care about exams; he would happily sit with him as he revised. He needed more reasons. "And there's a group project I need to hand in the first week after the holiday."

Tezuka was not fooled. He went straight for the heart of the problem, the way he always did. "You don't want me to visit?"

One question was answered with another. Fuji could not think.

"Don't you have important people you should spend your vacation with?"

There was a long pause. "Yes. You. But if you mean my parents, they are going on a holiday on their own."

"No, I mean..." Could Fuji say it?

"What do you mean?"

"That woman. That actress you're seeing."

Fuji heard a gasp. Was it one of shock or guilt?

"You are not the type of person to believe in rumours."

"Don't tell me what type of person I am." Suddenly Fuji grew cold. His voice reflected this. "Said rumour has been going on for months and neither party has stood forward to deny it."

"But it is not true and you should not believe in it."

"Oh, really?"

Fuji counted to ten. Tezuka was not the kind of person to storm off in the middle of an argument, but nor was he the type to put up with being spoken to this way.

"Yes, really. Even if you find it too difficult to have faith in me, Fuji, at least have faith in what you mean to me."

Fuji squeezed his eyes shut when the line went dead. He did not know if he hoped Tezuka was lying, or not.

* * *

During the Christmas holidays, Fuji received a parcel. It was a simple shoebox, wrapped perfectly with brown paper and his name and address written on with neat but not very artistic handwriting. Inside, there was a Christmas card, some photographs of hills and forests in Chiba, and a packet of daifukus.

Tezuka had gone camping, on his own.

Fuji stood, naked, holding the package, barely acknowledging that last night's playmate had just gotten dressed and let himself out. He took out a daifuku, ate a bit and suddenly tears fell from his eyes. He wiped them with the back of a hand but more followed and he could not keep up as they ran down his cheeks. The taste of the salt in his tears and the sweetness of the daifuku mixed together and he could not tell what this feeling was, anymore.

* * *

Tezuka continued to call, twice a week, always at the same time. He never commented on the days when Fuji's phone was turned off and Fuji was not dumb enough to believe Tezuka coincidentally did not call on those days.

Those photographs in the entertainment news never stopped. Even though they never acted intimately or even touched hands in public, the fact that they were together was no longer a question. After one year of declining interview questions that discussed anything but their professional lives, they had even earned the respect of the media, somewhat.

Tezuka advanced steadily through the world rankings, and he began travelling frequently to take part in tournaments across the globe. But unless he had a match, he still called Fuji, always at the same time.

Once, a tournament brought Tezuka to a city an hour away from where Fuji was living.

"Can we meet up?"

Fuji sat on his bed, trembling, staring at the packet of daifuku, already half-eaten. Tezuka's patience and forgiveness, half-gone. Fuji did not know how to say no, so he answered the question with one of his own, again.

"Isn't she here?"

Fuji imagined irritation slowly surfacing and marring Tezuka's face. They had not talked about this since that time, but there was no need to specify who Fuji was referring to.

"There is no reason for that."

"Oh, yes, she's filming that new movie isn't she?"

"Fuji. Being close friends does not mean being romantically involved."

Tezuka was right. Fuji's voice left him for what felt like an eternity, but eventually he spoke.

"Maybe... that applies to us too." He should have said this long ago. No, he did say it. He had told Tezuka not to wait. "I-I'm seeing other people."

* * *

Someone had to be the one to say it. Someone had to be the one to let go. They could not be there for each other anymore. He had given up his right to be Tezuka's the day he decided this dream, this freedom in the foreign land, was more important than anything else. Fuji was tired of staring at the ceiling at night and feeling his guts twist together as he wondered when Tezuka would find someone better and when this pain would kill him. If things were going to fall apart, why not destroy it with his own hands? At least he could spare them both of the excruciating wait.

And so he closed his eyes, let go of the rope and let the blade slide down. But the guillotine did not sever everything and it only made everything hurt so much more.

* * *

The man spat on him before storming out of the house. His clothing in disarray, Fuji adjusted them before going to shut the front door. He then went to wash his face.

Nothing was working. Why would it not stop hurting? This did not have to mean anything, it was just to kill time, kill loneliness and satisfy something as mundane as bodily lust, but it felt like he was betraying Tezuka, even after having confessed about it. He was not together with Tezuka anymore. He was not betraying Tezuka. He let Tezuka go so that the man could have something more rewarding in life than waiting for someone as unworthy as him. He was not betraying Tezuka. He was not together with Tezuka anymore.

* * *

The daifuku was still soft, and sweet. Fuji ate it hungrily, desperately, even though the taste of it made him want to cry, for reasons he could not understand. There were only a few left in the packet. At first it seemed there were more than he could ever eat, and he let himself indulge, but now there was barely any left.

Fuji picked up the pack and started counting. If he had one every week, would it last until his return to Japan? One, two, three...

There was a date near the bottom of the transparent bag. _Best before._

Yesterday.

Fuji gave in and cried.

* * *

The line was dead. Tezuka's phone had been switched off and stayed off. The long, dull tone in the phone receiver was mocking him. There was nothing he could do to salvage what he set out to and successfully destroyed.

Fuji lifted his arm but stopped before he hurled the phone across the room to shatter it to pieces. It was the only way Tezuka could contact him. May be tomorrow it would ring.

Or tomorrow.

Or tomorrow.

Or...

* * *

Final project came and went. Fuji received job offers to work in this country but this land had become more alien to him than when he first arrived and he could not bear to stay any longer than necessary.

He fled. All the way back to Japan.

Some time after midnight, his family soundly asleep, Fuji let himself out of the house; it was too early for him to rest yet. As his feet wandered, he let his mind do the same thing. He thought about the last three years, and the time before that, and how he got to where he was, and the decisions he had made. Asking "why" was easy and the answers were there, but he could not stop denying, until now, when everything was over.

He wanted to go. He wanted to know what life would be like without the reassuring comfort that was Tezuka. He wanted to know how far he could go, on his own. And Tezuka trusted him, Tezuka let him fly, watching on the ground as Fuji ventured and, eventually, strayed. Tezuka waited so patiently, ready to catch him if he fell, and Fuji got scared, and guilty, and lonely, but he was too proud to stop and say he wanted to come home. He started making excuses and accusations so that Tezuka would not wait anymore; he did not want Tezuka to see how pitiable he had become, a legless bird that was too tired to fly but could not land.

The crash-landing was painful. Tezuka did not suddenly appear to cushion the fall because miracles did not happen to people like him. And now he was bruised, worse for wear, broken, but wiser. Learned, the hard way.

Fuji found his way back to the familiar neighbourhood, and eventually to Tezuka's home. The house was immersed in darkness, as expected. Tezuka was probably inside, resting for the new day. Now would not be the time to ring the doorbell. Did he even have the right to ring Tezuka's doorbell anymore, even if all he wanted to do was apologise?

And then, the front door opened. Fuji stopped breathing. Tezuka emerged, wearing his tennis kit and carrying his racquet bag. The sight, in the past, would have made Fuji smile; disciplined as he was, sometimes Tezuka got tennis urges in the middle of the night like how people would crave food. But now all he could do was stare. He could not even speak. There was a knot in his throat and it would not let him make a sound.

The man had not seen him yet. He stood, not going anywhere straight away. He checked the time, then got his phone from the bag. He dialled, pressed the phone to his ear and waited.

And waited.

Something came over Tezuka's face, like a dark shadow. He kept waiting. The other side was not answering. And then Fuji suddenly knew: Tezuka was trying to call him.

Words felt too heavy on his tongue, so Fuji stepped forward, just short of the front gate. He tried to use his usual smile. He wondered how he looked. Tezuka paused, looked at him for a long time, and put his phone away.

"When did you come back?"

"A few hours ago."

"Ah." Tezuka thought about it. "You didn't tell me."

"I couldn't get in touch with you."

"I see." Tezuka spoke as if he understood. He opened the door again. "Come in."

Fuji shook his head.

"We will not stand outside to talk at this hour of the day. Come in."

Fuji followed Tezuka into the house. He removed his shoes at the entrance and helped himself to some house slippers, fully aware that Tezuka was not moving, standing merely inches away from him. He looked up.

Tezuka was staring at him. In all the years he had known him, he had never seen him like this, ripples of emotions emanating from him freely, its intensity made all the more obvious by the deeply knotted brows and the clenched, shaking fists.

Fuji thought he was going to be punched.

It did not happen.

Abruptly Tezuka turned away and into the kitchen. He offered Fuji some water. Fuji was not thirsty, but he sipped it anyway.

The tap was dripping. Tezuka tightened it.

Fuji sipped the water again, clutching at the cup.

Tezuka adjusted his glasses.

Fuji set the cup down on the counter. His chest hurt. He had to say something. He had to apologise even if no words could convey what he wanted to say or make Tezuka forgive him. He took a deep breath.

"I'm -"

"Ah. I know."

Fuji stopped breathing again. He could feel himself trembling. Tezuka was walking towards him and with each step, he felt his courage diminish. He could not break down here. It would make it look like he was asking for forgiveness and sympathy which he did not deserve.

"No, you don't understand, I-"

Tezuka walked up to him. Tezuka held him. Tezuka stroked his hair, kissed his cheek, and whispered into his ear.

"Welcome home."

In the end, what Tezuka said, came true.

In the end, Fuji came home.


End file.
